Chapter Text
The skin on Stanley’s back itched, rubbing against the rough-carpet-texture of his ratty old couch. He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut against the yellow light of his lamp as he made a half-assed effort to push his arm under his body, giving up halfway and leaving his shoulder awkwardly twisted and forearm crushed under his own weight. He didn’t have the energy to move it again and instead took another drag from the joint in his opposite hand, breathing in deep and exaggeratingly smacking his lips, relishing in the earthy taste and the buzz in the back of his mind. The hand under his back buzzed, but Stanley couldn’t tell if it was from the weed or the weight. He didn’t have it in him to care.
Without opening his eyes, Stanley clumsily reached over to the coffee table and smashed the end of the spent joint onto its surface, smacking his hand against the stub for good measure. His toes were tingling, growing numb and cold and hot all at the same time. It wasn’t a bad high, he wasn’t tweaking over it, but it sure wasn’t what usually happened. Stanley didn’t think he used a different strain, he couldn’t have because he grew the stuff, hadn’t done anything different than usual, but as the feeling started crawling up his legs and leaving pins and needles in its’ wake Stanley couldn’t help but feel a prickle of worry at the back of his weed-addled mind.
“Motorcade, Motorcade, to the end of the world.”
‘A’ natural, repeated by droning voices. An endless blue ocean.
“Motorcade, Motorcade, there’s a hole in the ground.”
Rumbling bass. Vibrations in the water.
“Motorcade, Motorcade, And there’s people around.”
Sharp snare. One huge eye, full of sparks and stars.
“I want my baby back! Whoo!”
A record scratch.
Silence.
—----
Stanley woke slowly. Not unusual. The sun shone red through his closed eyelids. Unusual. There weren't any windows in his room. His mouth was shockingly moist, no residual cotton-mouth that felt just about chronic at this point. No scratchy jeans on his legs, a soft surface underneath him, a heavy blanket covering his body. Stanley slowly opened his eyes, wincing suddenly when his curls got caught in his lashes and scratched at the surface of his eye.
“Fuuuckkk.” He whined, voice coming out high and reedy. A white popcorn ceiling lay directly above him, early morning sunlight sending shallow shadow shapes across its surface. Stanley didn’t have popcorn ceilings.
He giggled in that weird higher version of his voice. It sounded like he had smoked helium instead of weed.
“This is a weird dream.”
He gathered the blanket - which he now could see was a plaid blue comforter - around his shoulders and turned to the side, closing his eyes and falling back asleep.
—-----
The scratchy sofa was back. And the cottonmouth. Stanley stumbled on still asleep legs, smacking his shin on the edge of the coffee table.
“Fu-hu-huuuuuck!” he hissed, cradling his leg as he hobbled clumsily to the Corner Clothes Pile.
Stripes, plaid, 20 different white band t-shirts, all of which have yellow-stained armpits. The smell of them all kinda mingles together after being in The Pile for so long, so Stanley doesn’t even bother doing the sniff test anymore. Just grabs a top, a bottom, and - if he’s feeling like putting in effort - maybe some boxers with waistbands so worn out there’s basically no point to them at all. No socks. They hurt his feet.
Stanley doesn’t think he’s shown up on time to first period since the first day of freshman year. Mr. Whats-his-face didn’t bother calling him out on it anymore, just stepped aside and let Stan stumble to the back of the room to his designated seat in the corner. Walk in, sit down, space out, stand up, walk out, repeat until 3 pm.
It worked. No thinking required, no confrontation, just smooth sailing until graduation where he’ll get his degree, skip off stage, and float to the moon. Or something like that. He didn’t really have a plan for after that.
His now not at all numb feet skimmed lightly off the checkered linoleum floors, weaving back and forth between the subservient sheep of Westinghouse High School. The throng thinned, a quarantine-zone circle of empty hall surrounding a hunched over figure, dark backpack hiked high on their shoulders.
“Syd!” Stanley slowed his pace to hers, hands clutched behind his back as he leaned forward slightly in an effort to see her face. “Plan on moving better? I’m all for challenging the system, but it’s gettin kinda jammed back there.”
Syd scoffed, but Stanley preened at the slight uptick of the corner of her mouth. “Sucks for them. I’m good where I’m at.”
Stanley had to watch his speed, occasionally accidentally getting nearly a foot ahead of Syd before consciously slowing back down to drop next to her. By the time they reached Syd’s classroom, Stanley had gotten used to the pace and stumbled when she suddenly stopped. She whipped around to face him, her facial expressions not giving him any idea of what she was thinking.
“You doing anything tonight?”
“Uh, N-no, of course not.” Stanley chuckled, an awkward smile itching up his face.
“Cool. Got joints?”
“When do I not?”
Syd nodded once, abruptly turning back around and slinking through the classroom doors and leaving Stanley’s brain to catch up.
“Yes!” He cheered under his breath, taking off in a poor attempt at a heel click and carefree skipping.
—--
Syd’s arm dangled out the window. She stared at the streets going by like she couldn’t care less about them, like her mind was some deep cavern that only she knew how to navigate.
It was sick as fuck.
Stanley tried not to make it obvious that he was stealing glances at her out of the corner of his eye as he drove them to his house, fingers drumming on the wheel to no beat in particular.
He tried not to let the silence get to him. Syd didn’t, she always seemed like she preferred it. Stanley liked talking to her, though.
He cleared his throat, one shoulder raising up to his ear and eyes peeking through his hair to look at the back of Syd’s head. At the noise, she turned to him, meeting his eyes. He snapped his eyes back to the road, hands gripping the wheel.
“You good?”
“What?” Stanley chuckled.
“Your knuckles are white.”
Stanley cursed under his breath, loosening his hold until he thought it was normal. Normal wheel holding.
“Yeah, yeah all good. Normal wheel holding.”
Syd snorted, resting her head on the palm of her hand. “Normal what?”
“Wheel holding.”
“Sure, dork.” she snickered, looking back out the window.
Stanley pulled up to his house, shoving the stick shift until the car jolted into park and fumbling with the keys once they both were out of the car, eventually giving up locking it when Syd’s gaze on him warmed his cheeks.
“Uhh, here we are. ‘Me casa is su casa’ and all that.”
“I’ve been to your house before, Stan.” Syd kicked her shoes off as she walked down the stairs, sending them tumbling down into his bedroom.
“Still applies.”
Syd launched herself onto the couch, crossing her socked feet on top of the coffee table and sighing.
“Let me guess, Bloodwitch?” she said.
“I have other records!”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Stanley scoffed playfully as he reset the needle on his record player, not bothering to change the album. Acoustic electric chords blared through the speakers as Stanley shimmied over to Syd, the lyrics as natural in his throat as breathing.
“The dream has gooooneeee-”
“Staann!” Syd whined, throwing a pillow at his face. Stanley stumbled, clutching his nose in mock-pain. “You are so off tune!”
“What? No I’m not!” He dropped the act, stopping in his tracks.
Syd giggled, eyes crinkling. “Holy shit, yes you are! Can you not tell?”
“I know I’m no Bonnie Taylor, but I’m not that bad!” He reached into his pocket as he sat down next to Syd, pulling out the Altoid tin where he kept his pre-rolled stuff.
“Dude, Barber, I have never once heard you sing the right note in a song.” Syd dropped her head back on the headrest behind her, face tilted up towards the ceiling.
“Fuck, man.” Stanley mumbled around the joint held in his lips, flicking his lighter until the flame tickled warm on his nose. The weed tasted the same as yesterday, same as it always had, and he blew out slowly, watching the smoke curl into wisps as it rose.
Syd’s hand tapped his shoulder, hand held out and waiting for the joint. Stanley handed it over, watching as she held it to her lips, breathing long and deep, chest rising and shoulders sinking into the couch below her as she exhaled.
Stan took another hit before passing it back to Syd for her second round, mind growing calmer.
“Hey Syd?” She hummed in response.
“Anything seem up with that weed?”
“W-hat?” she scoffed. “You tryin to lace me with some shit, dude? If you are, asking if I noticed is not the best way to keep it on the down low.” He took the joint from between her fingers.
“Naw, naw, it’s just-” Another hit. “Just had some weird ass weed dreams last night. Felt weird before I passed out. It’s probably nothing.”
“You’re a weird ass dude. No way you have normal ass dreams.”
“No, just… This one felt clear. And boring. Like, too normal. For dreams.” He sighed. “I mean, dreams are supposed to be weird as shit, right?”
Syd shrugged, pupils big and unfocused. The guitar chords vibrated across the floor, through the couch, up into Stanley’s chest. It felt like he was purring, purring with the music. Sydney’s eyes fluttered shut next to him, quiet humming rumbling in her throat. Stanley forced his eyes shut too, even if just to stop looking at her. He felt weird, looking at her when she was so… Open. Vulnerable.
Floaters danced across his eyelids, shifting shapes as they went. Stanley tried naming the shapes as they passed, like they were clouds at a park. Peanut, Balloon, Tent-
Turtle.